


throw a punch, catch a kiss

by belby



Category: Outer Banks (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Mutual Pining, but not really?, instead of comfort its the guy u like rolling his eyes at you while he carefully cleans ur wounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:35:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24644929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belby/pseuds/belby
Summary: Pope can see his mother study him.“You two boys look out for each other, don’t you?” she says, and she looks like she’s comforted by the thought. Pope, on the other hand, is not, because this feels like it could head into dangerous territory very quickly.(or, Pope is pining, JJ is hurt, and they're both kind of stupid).
Relationships: JJ Maybank/Pope Heyward, JJ/Pope (Outer Banks)
Comments: 31
Kudos: 314





	throw a punch, catch a kiss

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be a hurt/comfort scene from a longer fic i was trying to write but i was kind of tired of writing angst so this ended up being kind of light and stupid and became its own separate thing. srsly ive been struggling to write that long fic for ages but then hashed this scene out in like a day. the power of gay dumbassery i guess
> 
> also the events of s1 just...havent happened in this. but theyre the same age as they are in the show

Pope should really get used to the fact that JJ likes to stay out late.

It’s late, night pressing down him, and getting colder by the minute, the crisp, chill of late autumn. And Pope tries to study. Strains to focus on his textbook under the light of his desk lamp. But his gaze is drawn to his bedroom door every other minute, cracked open. Waiting for the moment he’ll catch sight of a shadow in the hallway light, that JJ will saunter into the room, probably smelling like weed, grinning about something stupid. But he looks at the door and the minutes pass and he looks back at his books and the minutes pass and there’s no sign of JJ.

Would it be ridiculous if Pope went out and looked for him? Probably. Because JJ does this sometimes. It’s more likely than anything that he’s just off smoking a joint somewhere. That he’s found a gaggle of tourons and is knocking back beer with his arm hooked through a pretty girl’s.

(It’s better to pretend that Pope’s stomach doesn’t harden at that last thought).

Eventually, keeping his eyelids open becomes a conscious decision, and the words begin to swim on the page. It’s almost one in the morning, and Pope’s not one to stay up late. He snaps his textbook closed, leans back in his chair, drags his face over his hands. Better to go to bed now before he ends up with his face on the desk and crick in his neck in the morning.

He looks back over at his door. Even with the orange light of his little desk lamp, with the muted yellow light of the hallway, half of his bedroom is still bathed in shadow. Can see his own shadow against the door, a still, watching figure turned toward it. But of course, the hallway remains shadowless.

And then there’s the sudden sound of his window rattling in its frame. A scraping sound. And Pope is jolting in his seat, heart in his throat, because someone is breaking into his bedroom.

 _Shitshitshit a weapon…he’s needs a weapon._ He lunges for his textbook, gets to his feet, and holds it up above his head.

The intruder tumbles through the window and falls to his bedroom floor with an _oof._

“Fuck,” JJ groans. He rolls over onto his back, face contorted, eyes clenched, like the movement has hurt him. “Just pretend I stuck the landing.”

Pope lowers his textbook, and tries to get his heart rate to lower, too. “ _Jesus_ , JJ. You ever heard of a front door?”

“Once or twice,” JJ says. “But I didn’t wanna wake the old ‘rents.”

“Scared the shit out of me, man,” Pope says, and places his textbook back on his desk. 

JJ remains where he is, on his back, on the floor. That side of the bedroom is the darkest – the window doesn’t let in any light, a square of pitch-black, and the lamplight barely touches it. So JJ is hard to see, completely, from where Pope stands. But Pope can see the way his chest rises and falls rapidly, an echo of orange light brushing over JJ’s torso, can hear that JJ is breathing heavily. And he can tell that JJ’s eyes are closed. JJ’s face is pale in the dim-light, grows a little clearer as Pope steps closer.

He can tell that those dark marks, that become more noticeable with each step, over JJ’s face aren’t shadow.

“JJ,” he says, and it means, _holy shit._

JJ’s eyes dart open, realises that Pope is almost standing over him, and he scrambles upright, until he’s sitting with his back against the wall under the window. “Yeah, that’s my name, dude,” he says.

“Who did that to you?” Pope asks, and he can’t step any closer. Because he’s frozen. There’s a large, dark bruise blooming on the right side of JJ’s face, over his cheek. A cut in his skin, blood smeared across his face. Another smaller bruise blooming near his jaw.

“Rafe,” JJ replies. “It’s not as bad as it looks. Seriously, I can barely feel it – I did way worse to him. Got in some good right hooks.”

Pope can barely even get his mouth to move, he feels so angry. “Why,” he asks, slowly, “would Rafe do that?”

“I dunno, man, the dude’s unhinged.” Pope doesn’t say anything, continues to stare at him. “We just ran into each other. You know how he is, always raring for a fight. He said some shit, I said some shit. Fists were thrown, and the rest is history.” Now, Pope’s stare becomes a glare, angry still at Rafe, but now also at JJ’s stupidity.

JJ tries for a grin. “Kiss it better?” he jokes.

“You need medical attention,” Pope says, and tries to ignore the way he feels a little hot at the word ‘kiss’. JJ frowns, disappointed his joke didn’t land. “I’m gonna grab the first aid kit,” Pope says. “Stay here and try not to get blood everywhere.”

“On it, doc,” JJ says, and gives him a two fingered salute. Pope hesitates, but then leaves the room – best to get out of there before he starts scolding JJ for always throwing himself headfirst into danger like Pope is Kie or something. He doesn’t know the whole story – it could’ve been Rafe’s fault.

He creeps carefully down the hallway. Can hear the sound of the TV in the lounge room, warbling chatter and muffled laughter from a late-running sitcom laugh-track; his dad probably fell asleep on the couch again. Pope holds his breath as he slinks past, slips into the bathroom, finds the first aid kit in the cupboard under the sink.

JJ has pretty much moved in, so it’s not the fact that he’s here that Pope is trying to hide from his parents. It’s the fact that JJ is still constantly attracting trouble. Pope knows that he’s been on his best behaviour ever since the Heyward’s offered up their home to him (it had been a quiet thing; Pope and his parents had noticed the bruises JJ would turn up with in the morning when he came to pick Pope up for school, and Pope’s parents had gently offered their home up to JJ as a place to stay) but sometimes it seems like danger and disorder are drugs that JJ just can’t quit. Every good week ends in a relapse. Like JJ is addicted to the rush he gets when he sees a person’s face twist because he’s pissed him them off, when their fists clench and there’s a split second where it could any way, could end in punches thrown or biting words or a promise that this isn’t over.

Pope wishes that JJ could just get excited over new episodes of their favourite TV shows like the rest of them.

He grabs the first aid kit, wets a handtowel with warm water, and then makes his way back to his bedroom. JJ is where he left him, on the floor, back against the wall. He’s curiously pressing his fingers to the cut on his cheek, and then bringing his fingers to eye level, eyes widening at how bloodied his fingertips have become.

“Rafe really got you good,” Pope says and JJ startles and looks up, as though he hadn’t realised Pope had entered the room.

“Nothing you can’t fix, eh, doc?” he says cheerily. “Also I already told you I got him way better, right? Yeah, I already said that.”

“Jeez, how hard did he hit you?” Pope asks, kneeling down in front him. He mostly says it as a joke, but he peers closely into JJ’s eyes, anyway, checking for signs of a concussion. JJ’s grin stutters when Pope leans in for a better look, blinks with rounded eyes, but it returns easily.

“Not as hard as I hit him,” he says.

Pope rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Just hold still while I clean the blood off.”

JJ nods, then settles back comfortably against the wall. Makes a big show of folding his hands obediently in his lap. His hair is all mussed and his skin is golden in the warm lamplight, his eyes kind of soft and patient as he waits for Pope to fix him up. It makes Pope’s heart race a little, but now is not the time to get caught up in his attraction to his best friend, nor dwell on their close proximity.

He swallows, zeroes in on the task at hand. The blood all over JJ’s cheek, smeared there like JJ tried to wipe it off with the back of his hand. Pope holds up the wet handtowel, leans in again. Then, reaches out with his free hand, to curl his fingers under JJ’s chin and tilt his head back. But the moment he does, JJ ducks his head, lips pursed, and Pope feels the cold, soft brush of JJ’s mouth against his knuckles as JJ tries to kiss his fingers.

“Wha – ” Pope yanks his hand away. JJ laughs. “I said hold _still.”_

“Sorry,” JJ says, but Pope can see laughter still bubbling behind his mouth.

“Tilt your head back a bit,” Pope instructs, and he reaches his hand out to once again move JJ’s chin. Ends up yanking it back when JJ tries to kiss his fingers again.

“JJ,” Pope says, which means _stop._ His face feels warm, but JJ is grinning, something playful glinting in his eyes, and Pope knows that JJ’s just doing it to be annoying. And he gets like this – kind of touchy and stupid – which he’s drunk or high or hyped up on adrenaline, and he’s at least one of those things right now.

“Sorry, sorry,” JJ says. “Shouldn’t harass my doctor like that, I know.”

“Yeah, man,” Pope says, and this time when he reaches forward, JJ sits still. “I could get you banned from my practice for that kind of behaviour.”

“Shit,” JJ says. “Don’t want that, this place is full of hot nurses. Hot doctors, too.” Pope is focused on cleaning the blood from JJ’s cheek, but he can see the way JJ’s looks sidewards at him when he adds that, wriggles his eyebrows. Now, Pope’s face burns, even though he knows that JJ’s just making fun. Seriously, though, _did_ JJ get knocked a little too hard on the head?

“You know that not all nurses are women, right?” Pope says, because, from what JJ had said, he wouldn’t be surprised if JJ thought that. For some reason, JJ doesn’t say anything, though Pope can see his shoulders lift in a shrug. Pope carefully cleans the blood from around the cut – can feel JJ’s eyes on the side of his face, glances at Pope and then away. It looks much better now, JJ’s cut, far more manageable now that it’s not all scarily blood-stained.

Pope pulls back, glances over JJ’s face for any more blood that needs to be cleaned. JJ’s hair falls over his forehead, all tousled and wind-swept, obscuring Pope’s view. So Pope brushes his hair back with his fingers, fingertips grazing the warm skin of JJ’s forehead, along to his temple.

Now, when Pope feels JJ watching him, he feels that JJ doesn’t look away. And Pope realises it’s because he’s lingering, is taking his time to carefully brush JJ’s hair back, as though he’s trying to savour the feeling of his fingers on JJ’s skin. As though he is trying to savour how close he’s allowed to get like this, savour how hot JJ’s gaze burns against his face.

Because he _is._

Pope goes to pull away, but JJ grabs his hand before he can. Grips it between two of his own and tugs it toward him. Smacks a wet kiss right against Pope’s palm.

“Dude!” Pope says, jolting away. But JJ beams, looking so pleased with himself that Pope can’t help it – he starts to laugh. And JJ somehow manages to look even _more_ pleased with himself.

“Gotcha,” JJ says, grinning. “They call me Jifty JJ.”

“Jifty is not a word,” Pope says. “You’re thinking of nifty.”

“Hey, man, Shakespeare made up words, so why can’t I?”

Every now and then, Pope is reminded that JJ pays more attention in school than most people would expect him to. “Because you’re not Shakespeare.”

“That’s what they _want_ you to think.”

“Who’s they?”

“Can’t tell you. It’s confidential.” 

“Are you sure you don’t have a concussion?” Pope snorts.

JJ shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not. Only God can judge, man.”

“That’s…not how it works.”

JJ just shrugs again, like _what can you do?_ Pope shakes his head at the ridiculous of it, but he’s still grinning. Starts to rummage through the first kit, finds antibacterial wipes and medical patches to go over the cut. “I thought _I_ was supposed to be the one kissing you better anyway,” he says, tearing open the wipes. Then he realises what he said and freezes with the wipes half torn open. Because _shit -_ it feels so exposing, even though he meant it as a joke, because Pope does _actually_ want to kiss him. He glances over at JJ before he can help it, to catch his reaction; JJ is staring at him, but he looks away quickly when Pope looks at him. It’s hard to tell if his cheeks are just still a little red-stained from the blood, or if they’re actually going pink.

“Whatever you think is best, doc,” JJ says, looks him sideways and cracks a smile that’s not quite as natural as the rest of them. Or maybe Pope’s just reading into things.

Living with JJ has meant, for Pope, a lot of reading and not a lot of books.

First, it was own his feelings. All in close quarters with JJ, seeing him first thing in the morning, wearing an old shirt that was Pope, all bleary-eyed, his hair a mess. How he’d catch glimpses of JJ’s tanned skin when JJ would nonchalantly change in front him and feel kind of hot at the throat. How he’d find himself smiling down at the kitchen table as JJ wooed his mother over breakfast, all big cheesy grins and sweet talk, the two of them feeding each other old-lady-gossip, Pope’s mother eating out of the palm of his hand. How his stomach twisted itself in knots the first night he woke up and realised that he and JJ had fallen asleep while chatting on his bed, and that JJ was lying right next to him.

He likes JJ, is what he realised. Has maybe liked JJ for a while.

Next, it was reading into JJ’s feelings, looking for the possibility that JJ likes him back.

It wasn’t a conscious decision, to look for it, it just kind of niggled at the back of Pope’s mind one day, when he glanced over at JJ while the four of them were hanging out on the Pogue. It was sunset and golden and he’d looked at JJ because he always looked at JJ, and he found JJ already looking at him.

And it happened again, and again, and again. He would catch JJ looking. And then Pope noticed all the _touching._ JJ’s arm over his shoulders, how JJ would sit close enough for their knees to touch, how JJ would touch his face, get close enough for his breath to fan over Pope’s cheek. How he’d kiss him – it was always jokingly, he’d smack a kiss to Pope’s forehead whenever Pope had a good idea, had kissed Pope’s nose once with a _‘chill out, man,’_ when Pope had been anxious over them getting in trouble for doing something stupid. And he’d get high and lay against Pope, let his head fall into Pope’s lap, slip his fingers beneath the bracelet around Pope’s wrist and fiddle absentmindedly with the beads, hazy and affectionate. It was so much, it was different to the way he touched John B and Kie.

So Pope can’t help but think there’s a possibility, can’t help but look for it. Especially when JJ does shit like _this._ Because this has almost felt like flirting. _Right?_ The hot doctors comment, the playful kissing.

Pope’s heart thunders at the thought – _flirting._ And he quickly busies himself with cleaning JJ’s cut with the antibacterial wipes. Makes JJ hiss through his teeth at the sting, reach up and circle his fingers around Pope’s wrist, like he means to pull Pope’s hand away. But he doesn’t. He leaves his hand there, gripping him, as he closes his eyes through the pain.

“You’d think the shit’s that supposed to be good for you wouldn’t hurt so much,” JJ grumbles.

“You should be a philosopher,” Pope says drily. He puts a plaster over the cut then leans back. “Okay, that’s done. You’re gonna need some ice for that bruise, though.”

JJ leans his head back against the wall, closes his eyes again. “How about I just sleep it off?”

Pope remembers, then, how late it is. But he’s the one hyped up on his own energy now – his heart-rate is yet to slow, like being close to JJ makes everything heightened. On the other hand, JJ’s shoulders sag like he’s starting to come down from his adrenaline-high.

“You can. After you’ve iced your bruise,” Pope tells him, then pats JJ’s knee amicably and gets to his feet. Once again, he finds himself slinking down the hallway, holding his breath as he passes behind his sleeping dad on the couch, as he makes his way into the kitchen. He finds a bag of frozen peas in the freezer, and bundles it up in a tea towel, is heading back to his room when he hears his name and freezes.

“Pope.” The shadowed figure of his mother stands in her bedroom doorway at the end of the hall, looking small and tired, wrapped up in her dressing gown.

“What are you doing?” she asks, voice thick with sleep. “Everything okay?”

“Oh, uh, yeah,” Pope stammers out, “Everything’s fine – ”

“What’s that in your hand?”

Pope’s never really been a great liar, so he says, “frozen peas.” He can see his mother lean forward a little, as though trying to catch what he said, but she doesn’t say anything. Her silence presses him for more of an explanation so he adds, “JJ tripped and hit his knee against the desk, so,” he holds up the frozen peas. “For the bruise.”

“Oh, JJ’s home,” his mother says, “good, good. I don’t like when that boy stays out late. Always seems to attract trouble, makes me worry.”

“Yeah,” Pope says. “I know.” _Me too._

In the dim light carrying over from the hallway, Pope can see his mother study him. Her face tired, but sort of thoughtful, and soft.

“You two boys look out for each other, don’t you?” she says, and she looks like she’s comforted by the thought. Pope, on the other hand, is not, because this feels like it could head into dangerous territory very quickly.

“Uh,” he says, feeling awkward, “I mean…”

“I’m glad you have each other. You kids. You’re good for him, keep him straight, huh? And he’s always taking care of you, drivin’ you around, helping you with work – ” she must see the horror on Pope’s face, because she breaks off with a small croaky laugh. “Oh, I know you don’t like to talk about your feelings. No mushy stuff, I get it. Go give those peas to JJ. And then straight to bed. It’s too late for all this bustling around.” 

Pope nods, though it takes him a while to get moving, even once his mother leaves, because he feels laid bare, all of a sudden. Though he knows his mother is just kind of sentimental like that, and she gets all extra sappy when it comes to JJ. Like JJ is some little injured bird that she’s taken it upon herself to nurse back to health through the sheer power of love and motherly intuition. But still, her talking about his and JJ’s relationship like that just feels like a little _much_ for Pope after he’s been gently brushing JJ’s hair from his face on his bedroom floor.

Like, seriously, what is in the air tonight?

When Pope enters his room again, he finds JJ changed into the usual old cotton shirt and shorts of Pope’s that he wears to bed, dumping his other clothes into the washing basket by the cupboard.

“You get lost out there?” JJ asks, looking up at him. The lateness of the hour seems to have really caught up on him now, he looks tired, like he finds his own body heavy to carry. Pope realises he’s trembling a little, from the cold, and takes pity on him, offers up his bed. Usually, JJ will put up a fight whenever Pope offers it; insisting that he’s fine on the air mattress, that he doesn’t want to intrude. But he must be too tired, sore, cold, to argue, because he takes up the offer.

Pope holds out the frozen peas for JJ to take with him but JJ is already halfway toward the bed. Within seconds he is laying down with the covers pulled right up to chin. Looks kind of pitiful and small. Pope finds himself following him. It just sort of happens. He climbs into bed and lays down next to JJ, the two of them on their sides, facing each other, and Pope reaches over – he barely has to reach, the bed is so small there’s only about a hands-width between them – and holds the makeshift icepack to JJ’s face for him.

There’s really nowhere else to look but at JJ. His hair falls over his forehead, his cheek squished against Pope’s pillow. The light of Pope’s desk lamp is real soft and subtle on this side of the room, glints gently in JJ’s eyes as he looks back at Pope.

It’s not awkward, staring at each other in silence like this, even though it should be. But it feels a little overwhelming, so Pope says, “we’re gonna need to think of a way to explain these bruises to my mom.”

“Hmm, yeah” JJ hums, thoughtfully, “I’ll think of somethin’.”

Pope presses his lips together, pauses a moment. “This doesn’t mean war, does it?” he asks. “Between you and Rafe?”

“It’s always war,” JJ says. “Pogues and Kooks don’t exactly live together in harmony.”

“I know,” Pope says. And this is the part where he should suggest revenge, because that’s what JJ always does. Pope usually isn’t a Kook target, considering he’s not a shit stirrer like JJ, but he’s been singled out a couple of times by Rafe. Remembers walking home from school once, by himself, when he was about thirteen. He’d been drinking a slushie when he came across Rafe and his friends loitering outside a corner store. They must have been in a bad mood, because for some reason the fact that he kept a close eye on them as he crossed to other side of the street pissed them off, and they’d shoved him to the ground and tipped his slushie over his head. He wouldn’t have told any of the pogues about it – it was embarrassing – but JJ had ridden by on his bike only a couple minutes after Rafe left, found Pope sitting on the ground, wiping from slushie from his face.

JJ’s face had hardened when he saw that Pope was crying. “I’ll kill ‘em,” he’d said, when Pope explained it had been Rafe. Then he’d left, fuelled by anger, and when Pope saw him the next day, he had a black eye and a grin that told him he’d sought revenge.

The second time it happened, JJ had, once again, gotten his ass kicked trying to avenge Pope, and then he’d tried to teach Pope how to fight. They’d use the punching bag out the back of John’s B place, barefoot in the dirt, sweating under the sun; JJ had taught Pope how to hold his fists, get his arms up in front of his face to block punches like a boxer. It wasn’t like JJ had any actual training himself, he was just mimicking what he’d seen on TV. Which meant he made a lot of _pow_ sound effects with his mouth whenever he threw a punch.

“I don’t want to fight anyone,” Pope had told him, nursing his hand after he’d tried a right hook on the punching bag – which was a lot firmer than it looked.

“You gotta learn to defend yourself, man,” JJ had told him. “Kooks keep kicking your ass.”

“They keep kicking _your_ ass, too,” Pope had pointed out.

“Yeah, but I kick their asses back. Makes ‘em scared to mess with me. You don’t see me getting jumped when I’m by myself like you do.” It sounded a little mean, but Pope knew that it was coming from a place of genuine concern, that that was JJ’s way of telling Pope he was worried about him. “Plus, once you learn to fight, we can get revenge on those fuckers together.”

JJ said it like that was the dream.

But Pope’s not one for revenge.

“I’d just prefer if we just left each other alone,” Pope says now. “Won’t be much of a war if we just stop fighting.” He moves the frozen peas from the bruise on JJ’s cheek to the one blossoming down by his jaw, can see JJ’s face a little clearer. The way he frowns at that. “Y’know, my mom said I keep you straight.”

JJ’s eyes widen, a laugh bursts out of him, “what?”

“Like I keep you grounded,” Pope explains. He doesn’t know why he brought it up, it just kind of came out of him. “Out of trouble.”

“Oh,” JJ says, still grinning, like he finds that amusing. The smile drops suddenly, “I mean, yeah. Yeah, I know that’s what you meant.”

“Yeah.” Pope’s eyes drift over the bruise on JJ’s cheek, reddened from the cold. “I feel like I could be doing a better job.”

The smile creeps back up along the corner of JJ’s mouth, looks like he tries, and fails, to suppress it. “I’ll say.”

Pope frowns at him. For some reason he doesn’t think he and JJ are talking about the same thing.

“Hey,” JJ says, a little softer, looking over Pope’s frown. “It’s not your job, anyway. But, you know, without you, I’m pretty sure I’d have been locked up by now.”

That makes Pope feel warm, though he just mumbles, “glad I’m doing something right.”

“Dude,” says JJ, “you do, like, _everything_ right.”

“Shut up,” Pope says. But JJ had sounded so genuine when he said it that Pope’s skin prickles, feels a smile start to creep along his own mouth before he can help it. And he can see JJ watching his lips, can see him smiling, too, as though reflecting Pope’s pleased, bashful expression back at him. Pope turns his head, tries to squash his grin into the pillow, and that makes JJ smile even wider.

“It’s true,” JJ says. “Seriously. That brain’s gonna be working with the best of ‘em up at Harvard or some shit.”

“Not Harvard,” Pope says, but he feels so fucking warm. It must the lateness of the hour, that’s made JJ all like this. The lateness and the soft, dim lighting, and the warmth of the bed – maybe his rapidly drained energy has made him sleepy and hazy-headed, a little more vulnerable.

“Well, whatever fancy-ass school,” JJ says, with that little smile, and Pope wants to kiss him. He shouldn’t want to but he does. So badly. The two of them, lying so close, JJ’s face smile half-pressed into Pope’s pillow, his eyes sleepy-soft. What would happen, if Pope did? Just said ‘fuck it’, swooped in and – “my face is numb,” JJ says. 

“Oh.” Pope blinks, pulls the frozen peas away, turns over to put them on his bedside table. Trying to focus, he leans in just a little, looks over JJ’s face, can see the blotchy flush that the cold has left over his skin. “How are the bruises?” he asks.

JJ gives a one-shouldered shrug. “Can hardly feel ‘em,” he says.

Pope is still leaned in, and he tries very hard not to look at JJ’s mouth this close, to not get distracted by the way his eyelashes flutter, so long they almost touch his cheekbones. Just checks over JJ’s cut, his bruises. At some point, he lifts his hand, and brushes his fingers along the cold, smooth skin beneath the bruise on JJ’s cheek.

“Can feel that,” JJ murmurs.

“You need more ice?” Pope asks, and lets his gaze move from the bruise, to JJ’s eyes. JJ is already looking at him, though his eyelids are low, almost drowsy-looking.

“I mean I can feel your fingers,” JJ mumbles. “They’re warm.”

“Oh,” Pope says. His fingers are kind of cold, actually, from holding the frozen peas, even though the tea towel, but he figures JJ’s face is so cold that anything would feel warm against them.

“Yeah,” JJ says.

Pope hasn’t moved his hand. Fingers still gently touching JJ’s cheek. And they’re still looking at each other. JJ, with the light still glinting softly in his eyes, Pope, with his heart on fire. There’s so little space between them, their heads on the same pillow, the fabric warmed by their combined breaths. It’s driving Pope crazy. He doesn’t know what it means, what any of this night has meant. No, scratch that, what any of it has meant _ever._ JJ, always looking at him, always touching him, always with him. JJ, brushing the dirt off Pope’s sore knuckles after he’d struck that punching bag that day, pressing a kiss there and then grinning at him, like it was all a big joke, even though he never did that with anybody else.

Pope lets his fingers graze down to JJ’s jaw as he begins to pull his hand away, and the moment his fingers leave JJ’s skin, JJ’s hand is there. Grabs Pope’s hand and pulls it back toward him, presses a kiss to Pope’s fingers.

He lowers Pope’s hand, looks up at Pope, and smiles. “Gotcha,” he says. “Fuckin’ jifty.”

And Pope thinks _fuck it_ , swoops in, and kisses him.

There’s a split second, where it is just Pope’s lips pressed against JJ’s lips, and Pope’s heart feels as though it’s going to explode. But then that split second passes and it is JJ’s lips pressing again his, them pressing against each other, and JJ is kissing him back.

Carefully, Pope cups JJ’s neck, draws him in closer, but JJ is never one to do anything carefully. He presses in eagerly, captures Pope’s lips hungrily. And suddenly they aren’t kissing but are _kissing._ Mouths moving fervently against each other. Pope pushes at JJ’s shoulder until he rolls onto his back, and Pope follows the movement, doesn’t let their lips separate. Plants a hand by JJ’s head and leans over him. Kisses him, kisses him, kisses him. JJ’s fingers graze up Pope’s arm and then clutch at Pope’s bicep, tilts his head up, pushing up into Pope intently, needily. They kiss and kiss and _kiss._

It’s dizzying. It’s Pope’s heart beating at one hundred mile an hour, his stomach hot, flipping over itself, prickles over his spine. It’s the two of them breaking apart and breathing heavily against each other’s mouth because they’d barely come up for air. Their eyes hooded, flickering between each other’s gaze and parted lips.

“Fuck,” JJ breathes. His voice sounds kind of wrecked, makes Pope shudder. “Can I just say, doc, you have _amazing_ bedside manner.”

And, “oh my god,” Pope rolls off JJ, onto his back, yeah, that just ruined it.

“What?” JJ asks, hoisting himself up on his elbow, looking down at Pope. He’s grinning; even in the dim light, Pope can see that his lips are red – _kissed-red –_ that his pupils are blown, cheeks flushed.

“Why the fuck do I like you,” Pope says.

JJ’s whole face lights up. “Yo. You like me?”

Pope scrubs his hands over his face with a sigh, though his lips are still tingling. “I just made out with you,” he says. And _holy shit he just made out with JJ._ He lets his hands fall to his sides, stares, wide-eyed up at the ceiling. Holy shit. _Don’t freak out, don’t freak out, don’t…_

“I know, I know,” JJ says. Pope’s gaze flickers over to him; JJ’s still grinning with his stupid red lips, stupid pink cheeks. “I’m just being an idiot. I…like you too, dude.”

For some reason, that doesn’t compute, even though JJ had been kissing him like he was dying for it only a minute ago. “Like… _like_ like me?” Pope asks. Maybe he and JJ are just as stupid as each other.

“Yeah. Wasn’t that obvious?” JJ asks, and frowns. “I mean, not even with the whole making out thing. I’ve kinda had a huge thing for you for years now – ”

 _Years?_ Pope’s lungs suddenly feel too big for his ribs. “Years?”

“Years, yeah. I thought maybe you’d noticed. I dunno. I wasn’t exactly subtle half the time.”

He wasn’t, was he? Pope had picked up on it, Pope had been right. JJ has really liked him all this time. JJ. Hot-headed, reckless, dumbass _JJ._ Has been quietly crushing on Pope for _years._

If only Pope had realised his own feelings sooner. If only JJ had said something… “We could’ve been making out all this time,” Pope says aloud.

JJ’s eyebrows shoot up toward his hairline. “Whoa, no shit?” he says. “You serious?” He looks bright and eager. “So I guess we should keep making out now, then.”

“I guess so,” Pope says.

JJ grins. And he leans down to kiss Pope again. But it’s gentler this time around, like they feel a little less rushed, like they know they can take their time. Because they know they like each other. So they kiss, deep and languid, until they’re too tired to kiss anymore. Then they lie on their sides, facing each other, faces only a breath apart, and fall asleep.

And the next morning, when Pope’s mother finds them in the kitchen for breakfast they not only have to come up with an excuse for the bruises on JJ’s face, but for why they can’t stop smiling, and why JJ’s lips are so raw and red.

Pope’s not sure his mom believes any of their lies.

**Author's Note:**

> oh the irony of being told by your friend that his mom thinks he keeps you straight when all he does is make you extra gay


End file.
